


Eagle

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Fluff, M/M, Motorcycles, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, to hear Steve tell it, he'd done the only reasonable thing available to him in the situation presented. </p><p>'I was taking your advice, Buck!' he said, with a strong emphasis on the <i>your</i>, as if Bucky had sat him down and told him, explicitly, that he better not come home until he'd done something utterly insane and reckless. </p><p>'I told you not to get into any fights!' Bucky replied, throwing his hands up into the air. 'I just said to go and get pick up some dinner from the automat! Not go and <i>steal</i>-- goddammit, Steve! Should I have been more specific, or less?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about motorcycles.

This was it, Bucky thought as he stared at the monstrosity before him. This was how Steve was going to die. 

*

So, to hear Steve tell it, he'd done the only reasonable thing available to him in the situation presented. 

'I was taking your advice, Buck!' he said, with a strong emphasis on the _your_ , as if Bucky had sat him down and told him, explicitly, that he better not come home until he'd done something utterly insane and reckless. 

'I told you not to get into any fights!' Bucky replied, throwing his hands up into the air. 'I just said to go and get pick up some dinner from the automat! Not go and _steal_ \-- goddammit, Steve! Should I have been more specific, or less?'

'I confiscated it,' Steve emphasized, as if the word made any difference. 'Oh, you should've seen this guy, Bucky, you'd have took it too.'

'Yeah, I really don't think I would've.'

'He was one of those huge knuckleheads that thought that just because he was big he could do whatever he wanted,' Steve said, and Bucky dropped his head onto his arms where he was sitting at their kitchen table. This is how these stories always started. _He was harassin' the dame, Buck, what was I meant to do, just sit there?_ or _...pushing people around, c'mon, just a great big bully, and no one was even doin' anything!_

This time, it was: 'And this fella – not the knucklehead, the guy at the table next to him – he was a _vet_ , Bucky. Bucky, seriously, a vet. Had both his legs blown off. Was just trying to enjoy a hot dog in peace, and this idiot just wasn't showing an ounce of respect. Askin' questions, acting as if the whole thing was _funny_ , making jokes about the poor guy. 

'And oh, Buck, I was getting real worked up. But you know what, I thought about what you said, and I _took_ your advice, because yeah, this guy was huge, and you're right, Bucky, I know you're right. I can get a bit hot-headed here and there. So I didn't say anything, I didn't get into a fight or nothin'. But, see, he was going on and on about his bike, and what a beauty it was and how it was his pride and joy, and I just thought, you know, I thought that he didn't, uh, he didn't... deserve it.' 

Bucky noticed that Steve's righteous tone trailed off towards the part of his story where he actually stole the guy's motorcycle. 

'He was an idiot,' Steve added, as if it made it any better. 'He left the keys in the ignition and everything.' 

'How did you even get it home?' Bucky asked. 

Steve, standing in the center of the living room but glancing out the window every now and then to check on the motorbike sitting on the curb and twirling the keys around one slender finger, just shrugged. 

'Rode it.' 

'You don't know how to ride a motorbike, Stevie.' 

'Do now. Winged it. Wasn't hard.' 

Bucky knew that his expression was probably one of abject horror as he looked at Steve, who, at least had the decency to look slightly, slightly apologetic and say: 'I did bring the hot dogs home, though.' He gestured to the paper bag on the table. 

This was it, Bucky thought. This was how Steve was going to die. 

*

It was a Harley Davidson. Flathead. A graphic eagle design painted in black, red and white on the tank. The dip in the seat looked way too broad for Steve's narrow buttocks, and the handle-bars were wide apart, build for people with a much larger frame than Steve Rogers. 

Bucky had to admit, begrudgingly, that it was a beautiful piece of machinery. 

'You have to give it back,' he said, having followed Steve downstairs to take a look at the bike in person. 'Actually, no. _I_ have to give it back. _You_ have to never get on anything this dangerous ever again in your life.' 

Steve just closed his fist around the keys. 'I'm not giving it back.'

'Yes, you are.' 

'No, I'm not.' 

'Steve. You can't just _steal_ things from people who piss you off.'

'I _confiscated_ it,' Steve emphasized again. 'Like when Sister Margaret confiscated those eight pagers you had in class last year.' 

'That's different in every possible way,' Bucky replied with a groan. 'For one thing, I don't think Ol' Maggie was planning on keeping 'em for herself.' 

'You don't know that.' 

It was getting dark, and Steve was moving forward to run his fingers over the smooth metal of the motorcycle, the glow from the street light catching off its polished structure. He was looking at the bike in a way that Bucky couldn't help thinking he'd never seen Steve look at _girls_ , and the whole evening was giving Bucky a stress headache. 

He imagined seeing Steve keep the bike. He imagined being at home and hearing Steve leave on any given day, starting up the engine and rumbling off down the street. The nervous twisting that would squirm in his own stomach every single time, worrying that this would be the time that Steve wouldn't come home. 

'I'm pretty sure the law doesn’t differentiate between “stealing” and “confiscating”,' Bucky pointed out, and found a touch of desperation leaking into his tone. 'Please take it back, Steve. I'm begging you. Just park it back where you found it. For god's sake.' 

Fortunately, Steve wasn't an idiot. Well, he _was_ an idiot, but with a particular brand of idiocy that tended to dissipate once his righteous anger dissolved. 

'… You're right, Buck,' he said finally, not looking up from where his gaze was lingering lovingly on the bike. 'I know I can't keep it.' 

Bucky breathed out a sigh of relief. 'Give me the keys,' he said. 'I'll take it back now.'

But Steve (for heaven's sake, _Steve_ ) just said, 'Naaaah,' and grinned at Bucky in a way that made that headache throb in Bucky's temple and had him wondering if he was going to develop an aneurism. 

Steve added: 'I think I'd like to just take one more ride.' 

*

This was it, Bucky thought, as he climbed onto the motorbike behind Steve. This was how he was going to die. 

He had been right, Steve looked ridiculously outsized by the motorcycle. He was perched on the seat so that Bucky could squeeze in reluctantly behind him (although not too reluctant – if Steve was going to kill himself on this thing, Bucky was going to make damn sure they went out together) and he looked even more comically small swamped in the only leather jacket they owned. It was Bucky's, and if he was honest it was probably a couple of sizes too big for _him_. But it was better that he have some sort of protection, and if the jacket was all Steve would acquiesce to, then by god he was going to wear it. 

'Ready?' Steve asked, glancing back over his shoulder. Bucky could see the corner of his grin, and the spark in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Steve's slim torso and chewed on his lip, grimacing. 

'Let's get this over with,' he answered, tempted to squeeze his eyes shut as Steve turned on the gas and kicked the motorcycle into gear with surprising force. The machine seemed to come alive underneath them, rumbling and vibrating with low, guttural noises. Bucky shifted a little bit on the small seat, and in all honestly, Steve was all but sitting on his lap – which wasn't actually a bad thing, if it gave him a slight boost up towards the handlebars. 

Bucky had this image of them making it all but a block down the street before Steve lost control and they went head on through the front window of the corner shop next to the Brooklyn Bridge overpass. But that didn't happen. So it was with disbelief that Bucky clung on behind Steve – tiny, frail, sickly Steve who always got into fights he couldn't win and would get out of breath climbing the stairs to their apartment – and found himself slowly relaxing as the cool night air whipped through his hair, the shops and apartment buildings flashing past smoothly. 

Steve handled the motorcycle just _fine_. Unbelievably so. He went round corners effortlessly, leaning his body into the turn, his bony buttocks shifting against Bucky's thighs. He was clearly joyriding – the automat was only a handful of blocks away, but he was soaring through the streets under the starry sky as if he had no destination whatsoever. 

'Great, isn't it, Buck?' Steve's voice was almost snatched away on the wind, but Bucky heard him. He was laughing into the cool night, light and carefree, his small body humming happily against Bucky's. 

Bucky was still somewhat terrified, although growing less so by the second. 'How the hell are you riding this so well?' he shouted back over the wind, and felt Steve's shoulders shrug against him. 

'Guess I'm just naturally talented,' came the reply. Bucky couldn't help grinning into Steve's neck, his smile pressed to the collar of the leather jacket. 

'Guess you are,' he conceded, but was pretty sure Steve never heard that one, the words carried away into the Brooklyn night. 

They rode for a long time, until the streets were mostly empty and it was just Steve, body ducking and leaning with the turns of the motorcycle, and Bucky clinging on behind him for dear life, his heart pounding in a way that thrummed through his body in time with the hum of the engine. They rode until the apprehension vanished off Bucky's back, whipped away into the cool air, and he started to wonder if the motorcycle was actually an extension of Steve's frail body. 

They rode until Steve regretfully pulled up outside the automat and killed the engine, and then everything went silent. The air stilled, and the engine no longer kept the pace of Bucky's heart. His ears rung with the sudden loss of noise, and all that there was was his arms wrapped around Steve's body, holding a bit too tight, and Steve's breaths – his chest expanding and shrinking under Bucky's hands – now keeping the time of Bucky's heartbeat. 

This was it, Bucky thought. _This_ was how he was going to die. 

*

Steve left a note with the motorcycle, scribbled onto a page torn out from his sketchbook before they left the flat. 

It said: _Here's your bike back, asshole._

They walked home, and the chill in the air wasn't quite as exhilarating when it wasn't searing against Bucky's skin and lashing at his hair. He draped an arm over Steve's shoulders to ward off the cold, and everything – the hum of traffic, the sound of distant voices and radios through open windows – everything seemed so much quieter.


End file.
